Each Day
by amethystpomegranate
Summary: A freak accident cuts off Alaska from her continental siblings and sets her present and former parents in tense opposition with one another, leaving her unsure of who to trust. She must choose to side with one or the other, but not far out of reach hangs a tantalizing third option, one no state has considered since the Civil War. Alaska, Russia, and the 49 States of America.
1. Prologue

The child in his arms stares up at him with wide, questioning blue eyes that take on a vaguely purple hue in the pale morning light. Her pure white bangs quiver furtively, like down on a young bird shielded from the world, in the frigid Alaskan breeze, and tiny crystals of ice cling to her eyelashes. Her skin looks cold and pale, smooth like white porcelain, but the brisk chill in the air brings a warm pink glow to her cheeks and the tip of her nose. She shivers, keeping her gaze fixed on him.

The round blue eyes seem to take in everything with equal fascination as her focus continually shifts to absorb every small detail, and Russia can't help but wonder if she can see it, somehow discern from his face what is about to happen.

Ivan pulls her knitted white scarf up to cover the lower half of her face, then turns her slightly toward him so that the fur-lined hood that surrounds her head like a lion's mane shields her small face from the wind. "He'll be here soon," he says quietly.

After a few seconds, she leans her head against his arm and closes her eyes.

For several minutes, they wait in silence on the bench on the side of the empty road. A snow-softened hill slopes upward behind them, and a few bare trees arch their spidery limbs over the unpaved, winding path, forming a tunnel of dark, knotted branches above them.

The bench stands at a curve in the dirt road, at the base of a narrow "U," so from his position, Ivan can see both ends of the path curving away from him until they run parallel with each other and eventually pass out of his sight, obscured by the trees. He watches the left side of the path with quiet patience, waiting for movement on the road.

The child stirs slightly in his arms, then sleepily opens her frost-sprinkled eyelids and tugs on his scarf with a small, gloved hand. "Daddy?" she says quietly, looking up at him. Her pale eyes shine with water from the cold.

"Hm?" He glances down at her.

She lowers her arm. "What're we doing?" she asks before closing her eyes again and laying her head down on his shoulder. She lets out a long, quiet breath through her nose.

"We're waiting for America," Ivan says softly. "He should be here soon."

The girl keeps her eyes closed. "What's an Amewikuh . . ." she mumbles sleepily.

Russia glances up at the left side of the path again, then looks back down at the small child in his arms. "His name is Alfred," he says after a few seconds. "He'll be taking care of you from now on, okay?" He smiles, a calm lightening of his features, before his face falls expressionless again.

"Okay," she responds, curling up on her side and shifting her head onto his arm. Her eyes remain closed. ". . . Aufwed . . ." she mumbles in a barely audible voice, gathering the fabric of Ivan's coat sleeve into her small fist.

Russia turns his attention back to the path.

* * *

By late morning, a light snow begins to fall. Tiny flakes flutter through the frigid air and settle into a thin coating on the hard dirt path, and specks of white pepper the fur lining of the girl's hood. She lays perfectly still except for the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest and the occasional flutter of an eyelid when a snowflake melts on her pale face. Her scarf has slipped down to cover only her mouth, and each slow exhale from her pink-tipped nose stirs the stray bits of fluff in the knitting.

For the most part, Ivan has kept his eyes on the left side of the bent road, watching and waiting. The soft orange sunlight that slanted onto the path this morning has vanished into a world of white, and now the sky is indistinguishable from what he can see of the horizon between the trees. The meeting time passed nearly half an hour ago, and a slight feeling of doubt has begun to eat away at his quiet patience.

Perhaps America has changed his mind? A slight smile again finds its way to Russia's face. That wouldn't be surprising . . . it's a rather useless piece of land, da? At this, he glances down at the sleeping child in his arms. I suppose I could try to contact someone else . . . there's really no use staying here any longer. He stands up with a small sigh.

As if on cue, a figure comes into view on the left side of the road, barely visible through the knotted tree trunks and the thickening snow in the air.

Smiling, Russia sits back down, and the girl stirs again and sits up in his lap, looking up at him questioningly.

Ivan points at the distant figure coming toward them along the road with long, quick strides. "See? That's America," he says quietly, then lowers his arm again. "He'll be your daddy now, okay?"

The girl's scarf slips down from the lower half of her face as she twists around to face the road. After a few seconds, she looks back up at Ivan with round blue eyes. "No," she says with a smile that rounds out her pink-tinged cheeks, "Aufwed is mommy."

Russia frowns slightly, then smiles and looks down at her. "Hm?" he says. "And why is that?"

"Ivan is daddy." She closes her eyes and lays her head on his shoulder again. "So Aufwed is mommy."

* * *

After a few minutes, America rounds the bend in the road and pushes his hood back from his head, grinning. Immediately, flecks of snow begin to cling to his messy blond hair. "So, Russia," he says as he strides up to the bench. "What's up?"

Ivan gently sets the girl down on the bench and stands up. "Oh, hello, America," he says with a pleasant smile. "A little late, aren't we?" He clasps his hands together behind his back. "I was beginning to think you had changed your mind."

Alfred shoves his hands into the pockets of his black jacket, still grinning. "Nah, just had some trouble getting here." He glances up at the branches that arch over the narrow path. "Why'd you pick this spot, anyway? It's way out in the middle of nowhere."

"Hm?" Russia says with a slight smile. "I considered arranging to meet at my house." He tilts his head slightly. "Would you have preferred that~?"

America laughs slightly, a little too loudly, and dismisses the idea with a wave of his hand. "Nah, this is good."

"I'm glad that you like it," Ivan says pleasantly. "Now . . ." He leans down and carefully picks up the girl from the wooden bench, then turns back to Alfred. ". . . I know you're young and not exactly intelligent, but . . ." He hands the child to America. "It's yours."

America takes the child, holding her with one arm under her back and one under the backs of her knees. He opens his mouth to respond, but Ivan has already turned away.

As Russia walks away down the path, the girl twists around and extends a small arm, waving enthusiastically. "Bye, Daddy!" she calls as Alfred frantically shifts his grip to keep her from falling.

Ivan pauses on the road. His pleasant smile remains unchanging as he glances back at her and raises his arm slightly to give a small wave, a slight rotation of his wrist, before turning and walking away without a word, his footsteps leaving dark prints in the gossamer layer of white on the ground. The last evidence of his presence is the trailing end of his scarf before he rounds the bend and passes out of sight.

After a few seconds, she turns her attention back to America, staring up at him with round, bright blue eyes. She extends a small, gloved hand up toward his face and gently pokes the side of his chin. "Mommy."

America frowns, but decides not to comment. His grin returns as he carefully brushes a few ice crystals from her white bangs. "Hey, Alaska!" he says. "Nice to meet you!"

The girl giggles and uses both small hands to pull her knitted scarf up over the lower half of her face. Her blue eyes shine with amusement as a grin rounds out her pink-tinged cheeks. "Mommy talks funny," she says in a muffled voice.


	2. Chapter 1

_150 years later._

"Juneau," Alaska calls softly as she retrieves her thick, olive-green coat from its wooden hanger by the door. "You coming?" She holds the front door open with the heel of her boot as she shoves her arms through the thick sleeves, then pushes back her long, platinum-blond hair that still displays traces of white at the ends. A frigid wind rushes into the entryway, prompting her to call again. "Juneau!" she yells, a little louder this time. "I'm leaving without you. All the heat's getting out of the house!"

The click of nails on the wooden floor precedes a soft panting, and soon a large Alaskan malamute rounds the corner into the living room, trotting eagerly toward the front door, its wet tongue lolling out of its mouth between large, white canine teeth. The gray and white dog stops in the entryway, looking up at her with dark, almond-shaped eyes. It tilts its head slightly, still panting.

Alaska steps to the side, holding the door open with her shoulder, and allows the dog to run out into the yard as she pulls on her gloves. She pulls her fur-lined hood up over her head and adjusts her gray scarf, then closes the door behind her and follows Juneau out into the snow, breaking into a swift jog to catch up. "Hey, wait up!" she calls, laughing as the malamute trots ahead, the thick fur on its tail bouncing and wagging with each eager step.

The dog pauses at the end of the long, snow-covered driveway, its mouth hanging open as its heavy breaths pour clouds of steam into the frozen air.

Alaska leans down and pats him firmly on the back, ruffling his thick fur. "Good boy," she says softly, then continues walking down the street. Juneau matches her pace, trotting along at her side.

The sun hovers at the horizon in a clear, deep blue sky, casting a weak orange glow across the frozen landscape. In less than an hour, it will dip below the horizon again and plunge the sky into darkness, and Alaska plans to make full use of the remaining daylight.

She quickens her pace and shoves her hands into the pockets of her coat, her boots crunching the thin layer of old snow beside the road. The large dog hurries along beside her.

* * *

For a long time now, she's been fully adjusted to living alone. Well, not exactly alone. She's still an American state, playing big sister to Minnesota and Washington, and doing her best to keep California and Texas under control at family gatherings, but that is the extent of her interaction with the rest of the country. Alfred rarely bothers her anymore, and for the most part, she does her best to fade into the background and let them all forget about her. Isolation has its benefits, after all.

In fact, on quiet days like this, she can almost view herself as a separate country, with its own borders, it's own culture, it's own unique, frigid weather patterns. She squints at the weak, sinking sun. Definitely unique.

She smiles slightly, quickening her confident strides, and takes a deep breath of frozen air, coughing slightly as the cold sends a stabbing pain through her lungs. Immediately, she pulls her knitted gray scarf up to cover the lower half of her face and presses it down over her nose and mouth, and her smile returns. Not even Minnesota can boast such cold, short winter days.

* * *

The sky begins to darken sooner than she expected, and Alaska pauses at a park bench at the edge of a wide, flat expanse of white bordered by trees. As she sits down, Juneau scouts out the area for a few seconds before stopping beside her, panting heavily, his tongue lolling out, looking up at her with expectant eyes.

She pats his head a few times. "Of course I brought food," she says quietly, as if in response to a question, then reaches a hand into her pocket. "Let me just-"

A persistent vibrating in her pants pocket brings a slight frown to her face. With a sigh, she shifts her hand into the other pocket and pulls out her phone, then flips it open with her thumb and brings it to her ear. "Hello?"

"Hey guys! It's Alfred!" a loud voice greets on the other end.

Alaska continues to frown. "Oh, hi Dad. Wh-"

"Anyway, I'm sure you're all a little freaked out about what happened, but seriously, I think a celebration is in order!"

Alaska lets out a small sigh. _Oh . . . it's a recording . . ._

The loud voice continues. "So, I was thinking you could all come over, and we can celebrate a catastrophe narrowly and heroically avoided! I mean, seriously, we just avoided an apocalypse, you guys. Snacks are on New York!" The call ends and dissolves into static.

Alaska lowers the phone to her lap, still frowning slightly. _What was that all about . . . ?_

After a few seconds, the phone vibrates again, and she opens it with another sigh, glancing down at the small, lit up screen. _What now?_

A small, animated envelope opens and closes on the screen. Text message from New York. A mass notification sent out to all her siblings. She presses the 'ok' button to open it.

"_Whoa, hold it!" _the message reads. "_Snacks ***NOT*** on me, got it? I just said I'd bring some food. SOME. You guys bring your own snacks! XD!"_

Alaska smiles slightly, but then her confused frown returns as she closes the phone and slips it back into her pocket. _What exactly happened?_

* * *

After a few minutes, the last of the sun disappears behind the hills, and the park falls into a dim twilight. Pinprick stars begin to pierce the sky as the fiery orange glow on the horizon begins to fade, and a dim yellow street lamp flickers to life above them, flooding the area around the bench with a soft circle of artificial light. Alaska stands up. "Come on, Juneau," she says softly, patting the large malamute on the back of the neck. "You'll get _your_ snacks when we get home."

Juneau's face remains unchanging, his tongue lolling out of his panting, grinning mouth.

Alaska laughs slightly, brushing a strand of hair away from her face with a gloved hand. "Whatever. Let's go." She starts to walk away from the bench, and the dog follows, his paws sinking into the thin blanket of snow.

After a few steps, Juneau stops.

She pauses and turns around. "Juneau, come on," she calls softly, beckoning with her hand.

The dog doesn't budge. He stands perfectly still, his ears pricked up, alert.

Alaska lets out a sigh. "Not now. You can find rabbits tomorrow." She pats her leg a few times to get his attention, then moves as if to turn away. "Come on, Juneau."

Juneau lets out a small whine and turns around a few times, leaving a ring of footprints in the snow. He glances up at the darkening horizon.

She frowns slightly. "Hm? What's up?"

He turns away from her, and a low rumble reaches Alaska's ears. At first, she doesn't recognize the sound, but it grows steadily louder as she walks forward to stand beside the tense malamute. She glances down at him, surprised to find his lips parted, his pearl-white fangs bared up at the horizon. Immediately, she pinpoints the sound. A low growl, the deep, unforgiving, hostile kind that she has only heard a few times in her life, rumbles from Juneau's throat.

Her eyes wander to the horizon. Nothing there. Just jagged mountain peaks capped with snow and silhouetted against the reddened, darkening rim of the sky. _Then what...?_

A flash of light illuminates the sky, followed soon after by a deafening _boom _that resonates through the ground. The branches of the surrounding trees shiver slightly, sending a shower of snow to the earth. Alaska stumbles slightly, unable to hold back a startled yelp.

Juneau lets out a high-pitched whine, then barks a few times before whining again.

Another thunderous boom splits the air, and a flash of orange light explodes upward from somewhere on the horizon.

Juneau is barking frantically now, running in circles and whining and looking up at the distant mountains.

Alaska rushes forward to catch him, but he easily escapes her grip. "C-Come on, Juneau," she repeats softly, struggling to keep her voice calm but firm. "Let's go home." She glances up at the mountains. "Juneau, let's _go._"

As she watches, a yellow-orange streak arches across the sky, like the trail behind a jet, but much closer, infinitely brighter, screaming through the air like a meteor, its wake shimmering with heat. Her eyes widen as it passes above them. "Juneau," she repeats breathlessly, "_let's GO."_

But the dog is beyond reasoning now, sprinting around the park in a panic, kicking up snow and barking like a maniac.

Three more projectiles come rocketing across the sky, and a deafening, thunderous roar echoes over the landscape. One of them hits a snow-covered hillside a mile away with an earsplitting boom that sends another shockwave through the ground, and Alaska is shaken from the ground and collapses to her knees, her breath coming in short gasps. _What is going on?!_

Another rocket streams through the air, arching across the sky.

Three more appear, curving toward the ground.

Another blazing projectile appears from behind the mountains.

And another.

And another, until the sky is alive with fire. The missiles rain down, shaking the ground, tearing through the trees, ripping deep gashes in the flaming earth.

Alaska loses sight of Juneau, loses all sense of direction, stumbling blindly, senselessly across the turbulent earth. The missiles scream through the air, drowning out all other sounds until she can't even hear her own screams.

Something collides with her shoulder. Hard. Solid. She collapses onto her side, and something heavy pins her down. The ground erupts beneath her, and she falls.

Falls and falls, downward into a cold, black numbness.

All sounds fade away to a high pitched ringing as pressure closes in around her head. Vaguely, she feels herself being tossed aside again, unable to react.

A splitting, agonizing pain tears through her left knee, then her shoulder, and then everything blends together into one mass of blinding, searing pain.

Unconsciousness comes on slowly, creeping in at the edges of her mind, forcing her down into blackness.

A deep, cold, heavy sleep sets in.


	3. Chapter 2

California shoves open the door of America's house, grinning. He slams the door behind him and strides into the living room, then abruptly stops, surprised to find the house already full, every space taken by his siblings. Windowsills, armrests of chairs, the backs of couches, all occupied. Different conversations blend together into one mass of chaotic noise. "Aw, come on, you guys!" he shouts into the crowd, but the grin doesn't leave his face. "Why am I always the last one here?!"

Georgia, sitting on the armrest of the nearby couch with a half-eaten sandwich in her hand, rolls her eyes. "'Cause you live on the other side of the continent, and you never get up before ten, that's why." She dismisses the subject with a disinterested wave of her hand and leans back against the couch. She takes another bite out of her sandwich, letting a stray piece of shredded lettuce fall to her lap, then turns back to Alabama, the girl sitting beside her on the crowded sofa.

California shrugs in response, ignoring her lack of interest. "Whatever. Sleep is important." He pauses for a second. "Oh!" Grinning, he reaches into the half-zipped backpack slung over his shoulder and tosses her a DVD in a black case. "Early release. I brought like thirty of 'em."

Georgia lets out a startled cry, almost dropping the sandwich in her hand as the movie bounces off her forearm and clatters to the floor. "Can't you see I'm eatin'?!" She brushes back a dark strand of hair as she looks down with exaggerated disgust at the plastic rectangle on the carpet. "Just come hand it to me!"

California simply laughs and walks through the living room toward the kitchen. "Hey, Florida!" he calls. "I brought some more zombie movies!"

* * *

Minnesota, a bright-eyed girl with mousy brown hair tied back in a ponytail, leans on the back of the couch behind Washington and Oregon. She pokes both her brothers in the back. "Hey," she says in a soft voice barely audible over the din of conversation in the room. "Did either of you hear from Alaska?"

Washington shrugs, but doesn't turn around, absorbed in his newly opened bag of chips.

After a few seconds, Oregon turns around and looks up at her with dark green eyes the same color as his plain t-shirt. "She's always late to these kinds of things," he says after a few seconds. "I bet she'll show up in a few hours." He sighs slightly and runs a hand through his short, dark hair that contrasts sharply with his pale skin. "Or . . . she might not come. I don't know, she never answers her phone."

Minnesota frowns slightly. "You look tired," she says quietly.

Oregon lowers his hand to his lap and shrugs, smiling slightly. "I guess I'm just a little stressed about . . . what happened." He lowers his gaze and pauses for a few seconds. "Some rumor was going around that all those diverted bombs were gonna end up at my house. But apparently they all landed by some island in northern Canada."

Minnesota's eyes widen, a dusting of freckles standing out sharply on her cheeks. "They saw where they all went? I thought . . ."

He dismisses the idea with another shrug. "Well, not exactly, but whatever. It's just an estimate. But no one lives in that area, so we're good." He laughs slightly, but it comes out tense and forced. "But it's still a little nerve racking, you know?"

Minnesota nods. "Yeah . . ."

"I mean," he continues, "imagine if Dad hadn't diverted all those missiles and stuff in time. We'd be completely fried by now."

She nods again, her eyes focused on some point ahead of her, lost in thought.

* * *

After a few minutes, Alfred bursts into the room from the kitchen, Massachusetts and Connecticut following close behind him. "Hi guys!" he calls, grinning. He pulls a cell phone from his pocket and flips it open. "I'm gonna need it quiet for a bit. I'm just gonna call Russia and let him know how awesome we are."

At this, triumphant shouts ring out all around the room, and America grins. "Okay, you don't have to stay _completely_ quiet. It'd be awesome if Russia could hear you guys." He laughs and dials the number, then holds the phone to his ear. "So much for that master plan of his!"

America waits with the phone pressed against his ear, glancing a few times around the living room. The states watch quietly, tense with anticipation. After a few seconds, a soft ringing breaks the silence on the other end of the call, crackling with static. Another ring follows a moment later. "Hey, if he doesn't pick up, I'm just gonna leave a message," he says loudly so that everyone in the room can hear. "I bet he's just too ashamed to talk right now," he laughs.

Alfred remains standing in the center of the room, and after several more rings, the call goes to voicemail. "Hey Russia!" he says loudly. "Just calling to let you know that your plan has completely failed. That's right, you suck!" He laughs as the states again burst into triumphant cheers. He slams the phone shut, as if adding an exclamation point to a dramatic sentence.

* * *

After a few minutes, the excitement dies down considerably, and America makes his way to the stairs. "Hey, I'll be back down in a bit," he calls, not waiting for an answer. He climbs the steps and walks down the unlit hallway to his bedroom. The moment he enters the room, his grin vanishes, and he shuts the door firmly behind him, not bothering to turn on any lights.

Immediately, he pulls out his cell phone and dials Russia's number again. Static interrupts the first ring before the phone even reaches his ear.

"Oh, hello America, a soft voice greets cheerfully. "Calling again, are we?"

"Yeah." Alfred tightens his grip on the phone, the mocking tone completely gone from his voice. "Look, I'd like to talk to you as little as possible, so cut the crap and let's get to the point. You'd better have a good explanation, 'cause that was some pretty serious shit you sent my way."

Russia maintains his tone of pleasant innocence. "Hm? I don't see what the problem is. None of the children seemed very upset when you called."

"That's 'cause there's no way I'm gonna explain all this to a bunch of eight-year olds!" Alfred retorts, his voice a sharp near-whisper.

There is a short pause on the other end. "Hm . . . ? I was sure most of them were older than that . . ."

"You know what? Whatever!" America sits down heavily on the edge of the unmade bed, then immediately stands up again, making no effort to contain the frustration that boils up inside him. "We're getting off topic here. Now give me an explanation for sending fifty-something missiles at my house without warning!" he shouts, anger rising in his voice. "Something like that could completely devastate a nation!"

A stifled giggle on the other end. "Devastate? What a big word~! America, your vocabulary is improving!" Russia pauses and continues in a softer, quieter tone, ". . . And there were a lot more . . . projectiles than that, da? But you were never very good with numbers, so I'll just leave it at that, okay~?"

"Just tell me what the heck you were trying to do," America persists, pacing about the room with the phone held to his ear, glaring at the floor. "Even if the states are doing alright, people are freaking out over here!"

"Trust me, no harm was intended."

"Like hell I'm gonna believe that."

Another soft giggle. "Oh, America, you're so _amusing _sometimes~! Well, it seems I have work to finish, but I'll be sure to call you again some other time, okay? Chatting like this is so much fun~!"

Alfred immediately grips the phone tighter. "Hey, don't you dare hang-"

He stops as static crackles on the other end and the line goes dead.


	4. Chapter 3

Frozen silence. A profound, cold stillness that only amplifies the persistent ringing in her ears. A heavy numbness weighs down her limbs, and she gives up trying to move after several seconds.

Just lays there. Perfectly still except for her slow, shallow breathing and the occasional weak gasp as the frigid air stabs into her lungs. Alaska keeps her eyes closed, numb, hovering in a black sea of half-consciousness. Her sluggish mind vaguely questions what happened, but she can't bring herself to follow any logical thought beyond a hazy, nebulous conception, a passing idea that always dissolves into half-understood flashes of blazing orange light, streaks of yellow across her vision, explosions behind her closed eyelids. The throbbing of her head soon pushes away any train of coherent thought.

She takes another slow breath of cold, heavy air thick with smoke. It feels almost solid in her lungs, burns her raw, parched throat, and she immediately tries to push it out. After a few seconds, she manages a weak cough, a barely audible rasping like dry leaves on pavement.

Immediately, a searing, agonizing pain tears through her ribs. Her breath catches in her throat. Hot tears well up in her eyes. Alaska feels them sliding downward from the corners of her eyes, scalding hot against her frozen skin. She forces herself to endure the pain, to remain perfectly still. Movement will only make it worse.

_Just stay still._

A choked sob forces its way out of her constricted throat, sending another sharp pain through her ribs.

_Don't move. Just lay still._

She takes a slow, careful, tremulous breath, gradually drawing the air in through her nose, forcing herself to relax.

_That's it . . . just breathe, _she tells herself. _Don't move._

_Just lay still, just lay still . . ._

The words fall into a soft rhythm in her mind, rolling over her, calm and soft and cold like the waves on the shore of a dark, quiet sea.

_Just lay still . . ._

Slowly, gradually, she lets the waves lull her back to sleep. She sinks down into soft, welcoming, forgetful numbness.

_. . . just . . . lay still . . ._


	5. Chapter 4

"Amerika?"

America shoves the cold plastic screen of the cell phone groggily against his left ear with the palm of his hand, his eyes tightly closed. ". . . Hnh?" He presses the right side of his head harder into the pillow and groans into the fabric as it folds around his face. _You've got to be freaking kidding me._

The soft voice continues, just as infuriatingly calm as before. "I can assume all of your . . . children have left the house by now, da?"

Alfred rolls onto his back. "No, but they're sleeping, and so was I until my phone vibrated on my face," he mutters, his voice sluggish and heavy. "Now whaddaya want?"

"Hm~?" Russia ignores the question. "America sleeps with his phone on his face? How very amusing~"

"Shut up. I forgot it was on my pillow." Alfred keeps his eyes tightly shut against the glare of the screen as he forces his mouth to form comprehensible words. "Now what the heck d'you wan' . . . ?" At the end of the sentence, his mouth seems to lose resolve as his face relaxes. Sleep hovers around his head, waiting to close in. _Dammit, Russia . . . lemme sleep . . ._

"Hm . . ." comes the only response.

Alfred waits in silence, his jaw tight._ Dammit, hurry up and get it out. I wanna sleep._ After a long moment of agonizing silence, he opens his mouth to prompt a logical response. "Wh-"

"Have you been in communication with your daughter recently?"

_And _now_ he decides to talk._ America brings a hand to his forehead, stifling a groan. _Seriously, he woke me up for this?!_ "Which one?" he mumbles.

"The one who isn't at your house, perhaps?"

America lowers his hand to his side and slowly opens his eyes, staring listlessly up at the dark ceiling. "Uh . . . Alaska? I called her sometime yesterday. Why d'you ask?"

"You spoke directly to her?"

"No, sent a recording. There's freaking fifty of 'em, okay? I didn't have time to send personal invites to all of them."

". . . I see."

Alfred rolls onto his side again, exhaling an exaggerated sigh. "Yeah, remember what I said about cutting the crap?"

Silence hangs like a tangible weight.

America tightens his grip on the phone as his grogginess gradually falls away, replaced by frustration that boils immediately to the surface. "What the heck are you calling about?"

"Impatient, are we?"

"Uh, yeah."

"I see . . . I simply wanted to . . . inform you of something."

Again, silence extends for several infuriating seconds. ". . . Well?" Alfred's jaw tightens. _I should just hang up._

"Your method of redirecting those projectiles that were sent from my house was, for lack of a better description, highly ineffective."

Alfred sits up, slamming a fist down into the bed. "Dude, can we seriously be _done_ with this?!" The fog of cold, heavy sleepiness that hovered around his head when he answered the call dissipates completely. "Everyone's fine, and we don't need another freaking Cold War! If that's what you called me at two in the morning to talk about, I'm hanging up."

A long silence.

"Well? Are we done?"

"Hm . . . America?"

". . . What?!"

"Check your satellites."

"Uh . . . what?" America lets his forehead drop into his hand. _Why the heck did I even pick up the phone?_

After a moment, Russia continues, his pleasant tone unchanging. "I have scheduled a meeting for us in Toronto in two days, four o'clock, okay?"

"What?! Dude, you can't just _do_ that! I'm busy! And _where_ are we meeting?!"

"Toronto," Russia repeats after a moment. "It is a city in Canada, and it should be rather convenient for you to travel there, da? Unless you would prefer to arrange to meet at my house?"

"Uh . . . no."

Alfred can almost see the infuriating smile on Russia's face. "Toronto, then~?"

"Whatever. I'll come to your stupid meeting. But right now I'm gonna try my best to get the memory of your annoying accent out of my head so I can sleep. Bye." Alfred slams the phone shut, then flings it haphazardly across the room before flopping back down onto the bed._ God, that is the last time I'm leaving my phone on at night._ He lies still for a moment, watching the streaks of light that spread across the textured ceiling each time a car passes the window outside._ And where the hell is Toronto?_


	6. Chapter 5

It takes minutes of excruciating effort, lying on her back on the charred slope of the shallow crater with her hands clenched into fists until her nails split the clammy skin, cold sweat crawling across her dusty forehead, before Alaska manages to part her eyelids and begin to take in a glimpse of the frigid, decaying world around her. Some amalgamation of hardened ash and dirt glued her eyes shut in her sleep, and even now, as she blinks a few times to clear her blurred and dreamlike vision, the substance cakes her eyelashes and makes every small movement of her eyelids a painful chore.

Sparks dance like fireflies across her field of vision, flickering and pulsating and dying and then resurfacing again, surrounded by an oppressive black haze that constricts and expands with each throb of her fluttering pulse in her head.

For a numb and blissful eternity, she lies unmoving in dreamlike delirium, her eyes wide open and gazing uncomprehendingly at the milky, jaundiced sky. Her breath passes slowly and evenly through her cracked, bleeding, barely parted lips, bringing alternately a vague warmth and a stabbing cold into her aching lungs. At first her mind barely registers the pain; it begins as a dull, vague pressure in her chest and throat, then gradually gains clarity, as if steadily brought into focus by a microscope lens until it stands out clear and precise with all its sharp edges and corners and details and complexity and agonizing, gripping, excruciating_ realness_ within her. She draws another slow, careful breath, but the pain constricts her chest, and she falters-

The air catches in her throat, and she draws it back in with a sudden gasp, screwing her crusted eyelids shut. A whimper escapes her lips; the sound reaches her ears like someone else's voice. Alaska lets the air out, then her bruised ribs heave and she inhales a deep, sharp breath, and like an avalanche the crushing agony that she escaped in sleep comes crashing back down on her.

Searing pain erupts within her head and spreads down her spine, and the gashes that were numbed by the cold again eat with burning ferocity into her arms and legs and neck. She forces herself to remain still.

As the pain returns with full force, she fights back the persistent thought that she has held at bay for so long:

_What do I do from here?_

Before she can struggle against the idea further, unconsciousness folds in around her head in one swift, enveloping movement that pulls her again away from reality. She sinks willingly.

* * *

_Alaska opens her eyes._

_The malamute trods toward her with shivering, uncertain steps, his head tilted at an odd angle, too far to the right, his tongue lolling sideways out of his mouth, rimmed with jagged crystals of brownish ice. Juneau's low, heavy, labored breaths send clouds of steam into the thick air, and the plumes hang stagnant around his twitching head, blurring the details of his mud-caked face. Only a pair of glazed, dark eyes penetrate the fog, half-hidden by sagging, squinting eyelids._

_He drags his front left foot as he stumbles over the charred, snow-laced ground, rocking and teetering like an old, long-abandoned ship tossed without will or direction among the waves of a tumultuous ocean. His fur clungs in clumps to sagging skin that looks too heavy for the sharp, bony shoulders and angular haunches that it hangs from, and a dark mass of dried blood plasters the fur to the left side of his head where his ear used to be. He pauses at her feet._

_Alaska doesn't get up, just lays there unmoving on her back. Even from a few feet away, the heat of the dog's breath warms her frostbitten face._

_A long, low whine, hoarse and broken by his wheezing breaths, trickles from Juneau's throat, and he crouches down and drags his bleeding feet through the dirt toward her. Shivering, he leans his head down and brushes her forehead with the tip of his blood-smeared nose, and it scrapes over her skin like sandpaper, wrinkled and dry. The hot, acrid air that wafts from his half-open mouth reeks of rotting meat and smoke and gunpowder, and something deep and lingering, a cold, deathly odor that Alaska can't quite place, something that brings to her mind an image of dry, rattling bones and dank, unlit cellars crawling with moss. A chill grips her chest._

_A shudder racks the malamute's heavy frame, and he lets out a slow, heavy breath and sinks down onto his stomach, resting his head on his paws, watching her face with dull, mournful eyes. He raises his subtly twitching eyelids, and points of light reflect from his large, dark pupils as he inches closer until she feels the warmth of his head beside her face. Another weak tremor shivers through his body, and then the dog lies still._

* * *

The whine of a decelerating helicopter engine reaches her ears, and Alaska rolls her head to the side and eases her eyes open as the blades send a blast of air across her face. Across the wide scoop of the smoldering crater, she vaguely distinguishes the metal frame of the vehicle, its rusted landing skids sinking into the icy slush.

As the cabin door swings open and a boot plunges down into the snow, her heavy eyelids close again. Soft, unintelligible voices reach her ears.

Or maybe just one voice?

She loses consciousness again before the passing thought gains any momentum in her mind.

* * *

"Alyaska . . ."

A soft pressure beneath her head drags her back from sleep, but her eyelids don't lift.

Something brushes across her forehead, followed by a slow, barely audible whisper that reverberates inside her head. ". . . Viy myenya sliyshitye . . .?"

The pressure under her head slides beneath her shoulderblades, and her head slumps back into the damp, cold earth. Alaska makes no effort to lift it and remains still as an arm around her back raises her slowly to a seated position. The familiar voice somewhere near her continues in a steady stream of soft, slow speech, but the words reach her ears as a vague blur of sounds, incomprehensible. A low moan escapes her lips as a dull pain spreads outward from her neck.

An arm scoops up the backs of her knees, and a hazy awareness enters her mind of leaving the ground. Her head falls to the left against Russia's shoulder as the muffled crunch of his boots in the snow reaches her ears. Warmth rushes back into the side of her face, bringing with it stinging pains that scatter across her cheek like thousands of tiny needles. Shivering, she curls up in his arms and blindly clutches at the front of his coat, whimpering like a child as tears burn in her eyes. She can't find the strength to feel embarrassed, and the only thought that enters her mind is one of vague, overwhelming relief mixed with a nonspecific, agonizing pain that spreads throughout her entire body. Before long, sleep overtakes her again.


End file.
